


All Points North

by Rozel



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:22:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1844245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rozel/pseuds/Rozel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three go mad in Norfolk</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Points North

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karen L](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Karen+L).



> The muse returned from its holiday and this was the result. Comments and criticisms welcome. Thanks. Hope you enjoy it.

Usual Disclaimer  
I don’t own the characters of Bodie and Doyle, or any others from the TV series. They belong to Mark One Productions and Brian Clemens.  
I borrow them to write fiction for my own (and hopefully your) pleasure, with no financial gain to myself or anyone else.

ALL POINTS NORTH

The cold grey light of early dawn leached through the frosted glass window of the beach hut door. It was still early in the year, and the beach was deserted. Not even a dog walker or jogger had braved the chill wind as it swept off the North Sea. The lonely cry of the gulls was the only sound to be heard.

Doyle awoke suddenly, catching his breath, as he rolled over onto his injured arm. ‘Still alive then,’ he registered. He shuffled himself into a sitting position and took stock of his predicament. He was in pain but alert; stiff and cold but apparently still on the planet with the rest of humanity. 

He looked around; the beach hut offered the barest of amenities; a blanket, a couple of children’s buckets and spades and packet of very mouldy biscuits. He scowled. ‘Nothing useful.’ No R/T, no gun, no food or drink. Car left on the forecourt of a garage in Holt with the aforementioned tools of his trade in the glove box, and in all likelihood, the Dawson brothers waiting for him back at Wells. It wasn’t going to be one of his better days!

He cursed himself for underestimating the doggedness of Robin Dawson, and he cursed Cowley for suggesting this was just a one day mission.

“Pick up the tape from Jimmy Dawson and bring it back to me laddie. That’s all you need to do, or need to know.”

Well, Jimmy was dead, killed by Robin Dawson, and the tape was now nestling snugly in Doyle’s back pocket. As Jimmy lay dying, shot by his own brother, Doyle had faced off against Robin and Eddie. Their own in-fighting over the sibling murder, had led them to drop their guard on Doyle who had managed to get into his car, and gunning the engine, had headed away from the sleepy Norfolk town, hotly pursued by the brothers. 

With the petrol gauge dangerously low, Doyle had pulled into a garage, only to be seen by Robin Dawson as he drove past. The man had tried to corner the agent and retrieve the tape, leaving Doyle with little option other than to make a run for it, leaving the car, and making for the local train station. He reasoned that no-one would attempt to harm him while in full view of other passengers. He’d been wrong! 

Due in part to Robin’s temper and lack of foresight in making such a public scene on the train, Doyle knew that the police were aware a man had threatened to kill a young woman unless Doyle had handed over ‘the package’. The fiasco on the train had served Doyle well, with women screaming and men shouting. The police knew almost as soon as it happened, with passengers clamouring to tell their story. Everyone would dine out on their experience that day! 

Doyle, ever mindful of public safety, had thrown himself from the train, and begun a run cross country away from the train, and hopefully bringing Robin after him.  
The plan had worked – sort of – Robin yanked the emergency cable and left the train, making for the road. He’d found a phone box, because shortly afterwards, from his vantage point at Cley, Doyle saw Robin get into a red Granada car, which then made off at great speed for Sheringham.

Thinking he was safe, Doyle had followed the coastline, hoping to find a village pub or anywhere he could call for help. He’d been walking for some time, when the car reappeared from another direction. Doyle had thrown himself into the marshes, crouching down in the salty water, but he’d been seen. There followed a mad dash through the marshes, in fading light, Doyle unsure of where he was or where he was going.

He’d reached Wells Next The Sea in the early evening, still ahead of the Dawson brothers, and immediately headed for a pay phone. He’d got through to the CI5 switchboard, only to be grabbed from behind and pulled out of the phone box. Robin Dawson, beyond angry, pummelled the hapless Doyle before bringing out an evil looking knife, which he swept back and forth in front of the CI5 agent. Mustering his skills and pushing his tiredness to the back of his mind. Doyle had attacked first, taking Robin by surprise. He landed a blow to the man’s chin, sending him sprawling to the pavement, and leaving him dazed. Doyle took off again, running as fast as he could. Charging down a dark deserted road, he had no idea where he was going. He could hear the brothers arguing, and Robin shouting loudly. 

“I can’t fuckin’ see him, Where’d ‘e go? Up towards the pub. C’mon, get the car. I’ll ‘ave that little fucker as soon as look at him. I need that tape Ed! It’s got us at the meeting with the Russians. What was Jimmy thinking of! Bastard sold us all out.”

The car raced off towards the main road, leaving Doyle, crouched and panting in the undergrowth. Despite the fracas, Wells remained quiet. The pub door remained shut. No-one came out to see what the shouting was about. No-one put on any lights or looked out of the windows. 

Doyle continued along the unlit road. To his right was a steep bank, and on his left, more fields. He walked for about half a mile and came to a café – closed until April – before the path ended abruptly at the beach. 

Tired, and feeling giddy, Doyle kept to the tree line and made for a line of beach huts, mounted on stilts, which stretched out along the sand. Forcing the door of one of them, he’d taken refuge while he pondered his situation.

*******************

Bodie, stretched out on his sofa, was enjoying the ministrations of Paula, as she ran her tongue along his jaw line, and began her journey south. He closed his eyes, and smiled. A day off. He thanked the gods for his good fortune and gave himself up to his girlfriend’s active mouth.

He glanced down at the floor, strewn with clothes. It doesn’t get much better than this, he thought. A good meal, good wine and good sex!

Then the phone rang. Paula raised her head and looked pleadingly at Bodie.

“Don’t answer it Bodie, pleeeaaase! It’ll be your office wanting you to go in for some stupid thing.”

Bodie stroked her head and gently and pulled her up from her temporary resting place on his chest.

“No can do sweetheart,” he said reaching for his shirt and pulling it back on. “Never know what the situation is. Could be another lost report or missing invoice!”

Paula looked up at the man and pouted – a look that sent Bodie’s libido into overdrive.

“It’s probably nothing,” he said reaching for the phone.

“Hello? Yeah! What . . . when . . . how long ago? I’m on my way.”

The receiver went down with a crash, and Bodie shot up from the sofa. Paula, grumbling and muttering, scrabbled around for her jumper, and pushed her bra into her handbag.  
“I’m not waiting this time Bodie. It’s not worth it. I could be here for days! Call me when you get back from where ever you go.”

She sailed past him, smoothing her clothes down as she went. She reached the door and blew him a kiss. 

“If you weren’t so good in bed I’d give you up in a heartbeat. You’re so unreliable!”

Bodie lifted an eyebrow and smiled at her.

“Yeah – I do have some exceptional talents you know.”

Paula pause and laughed.

“You certainly do . . . and your conversational skills are quite amusing too.”

She shut the door. Bodie heard the ping of the lift bell and then all was silent.

Swiftly, he tucked his shirt in, tidied himself up and found his shoes. Grabbing his R/T and gun, he took the car keys from the table and locked the flat.

The journey to HQ was quick. It was cold and miserable, and at that time of night there were few people around, the New Year blues affecting all. He pulled up outside the building and went in. It was quiet. He made his way up to George Cowley’s office where the old man sat behind his desk. There was a tray with the remnants of some sandwiches on it, and a large file open. Cowley, pen poised, was notating the file. He looked up.

“Took your time Bodie. You were called nearly half an hour ago.”

Bodie stood easily in front of his boss.

“Day off sir. Entertaining.”

Cowley stared at the young man.

“Aye, I expect you were Bodie. Paula Hargreaves perhaps?” 

Bodie looked nonplussed at Cowley.

“Is there anything you don’t know?” he asked with the merest hint of petulance. 

Cowley continued writing.

“I’m her godfather Bodie. I take an interest in those with whom she chooses as friends. I like them to be of good standing . . . reliable and able to keep her happy and fulfilled!”  
Bodie thought back to past evenings with Paula. 

“I’m sure she’s happy and fulfilled sir,” he replied.

Cowley said nothing.

He pushed the file across the desk.

“We have a problem. Doyle hasn’t returned from Norfolk. He’s not answering his R/T and I suspect he’s in trouble. The last contact we had was some hours ago - a hurried phone message which was cut short. Not enough to trace I’m afraid . . .”

He pulled a small cassette recorder towards him and pressed a button. Doyle’s voice, outwardly calm, but with an underlying edge of tension flowed from the speaker.  
“It’s 4.5. I’ve got the tape but I’m in trouble, the Dawsons . . . .”

The conversation was cut short, and followed by the sound of muffled shouting, banging and swearing, before the heavy door closed, cutting off any further clues. The tape hissed quietly.

“Where was he?”

“We don’t know exactly. He was sent to Holt in Norfolk. It was only supposed to be a quick meet.” Cowley gestured towards the file.

“The Dawson boys. Batting above their stations with our Russian friends. Jimmy, the oldest, didn’t like the Reds approach and wanted out. He offered us taped evidence of his brothers’ dealing with one Leo Aronovitch . . . guns and drugs in exchange for a supply of working girls! Doyle went to meet with Jimmy, collect the tape and bring it back to me. Jimmy was found dead earlier today. Doyle’s car was abandoned on a garage forecourt in Holt.”

Cowley shuffled some papers.

“The police notified us of a disturbance on a train – a young woman was threatened unless Doyle gave up the tape. He jumped the train and made off. Apart from the phone call we’ve heard nothing else.

Bodie let out a low whistle.

“Must be desperate to try a stunt like that on a crowded train.”

Cowley nodded in agreement.

“I expect Doyle thought it would be safer to travel publicly. Robin Dawson, on the other hand, is a hot-headed young man, not given to thinking about anything else than what he wants. It’s lucky no-one got hurt.”

“There’s little to go on sir,” replied Bodie.

“That’s true 3.7, but you work with the man, and you know how he thinks. What would he do, where would he go? Take Murphy with you. Finding Doyle is the priority Bodie . . . let the thieves sort themselves out. By the way, securing the tape would be a bonus!”

Bodie left the building and started up the car. He gave two brief toots on the horn and was rewarded by Murphy careening through the door carrying a Thermos. The lanky agent threw himself into the front seat of the Capri and pulled the door shut.

“Christ, who’s been sitting here? A ruddy midget?” He reached under the seat and found the lever. He kicked the seat back several notches and stretched out.

Bodie smiled humourlessly. 

“Doyle.” He said.

The journey was fast and silent. Neither agent felt like talking. They stopped briefly at a service station on the M1 where they drank the coffee quickly. They reached Holt in the early hours of the morning. The agents went to the police station and were shown through to a back office. An older man stood up and shook his hand.

“You must be the CI5 men,” he said without preamble. “Got a call from your Mr Cowley. Your friend’s car is here – we’ve gone over it and found these . . . “he picked up a bag from the floor.

Bodie tipped it out – there was Doyle’s R/T and gun, maps, little else of any use.

“It was found on a garage forecourt . . . owner reported it as abandoned, but we got lucky. They’ve just introduced one of those new fangled closed circuit cameras – supposed to cut down on people who fill up and drive away without paying.”

He sat down, and motioned for Bodie to do the same. He switched on a TV and put a large bulky videotape in the box beneath the set. Pressing a button, the machine hissed into life and a grainy image appeared on the screen. Bodie leant forward. It was hard to see much, but he’d have known Doyle’s build and curly hair anywhere. 

Doyle was crouched into a typical martial arts pose, circling warily, while Robin Dawson wielded what looked like a length of piping. Rushing forward, and catching his man by surprise, Doyle had knocked Dawson over, narrowly missing a red Granada which was parked nearby. Doyle looked in the window of the car and then ran off. The tape showed Dawson pick himself up and rush towards the car, which then drove out of frame.

“That’s it I’m afraid,” said the policeman. “We know he got on the midday train to Mundesley and that he ran off somewhere, here . . .” he pointed to a map of the county, “near Cromer. Good thinking on his part,” he added gruffly, “or we might have had a much worse situation to deal with.”

Bodie stared at the map.

“Good job he put everyone else first then,” replied Bodie sardonically.

The policeman looked up. 

“The trouble with you lot . . . CI5, is that you think you’re above the law. Too busy playing cowboys and indians,” he replied. “No thought at all for the local . . .”  
Murphy’s face darkened.

“Yeah, that’s us,” he answered, “the seventh cavalry. Keeping England smelling . . .”

“. . . if ever so faintly, of roses and lavender," finished Bodie. “Now,” he said pointing to the map of the coastline, “What’s here?” 

“Mostly marshland . . . area attracts a lot of bird watchers in the spring and summer. Not so many this time of year.” 

Bodie traced a line along the coast with his finger. Suddenly he turned, smiled at the policeman and spoke.

“I’ll be sure to tell Doyle how pleased you are he threw himself off the train and put himself at risk.” He turned and smartly walked out of the room. Murphy, surprised at the apparent change of heart, followed his friend. 

Bodie climbed into the car and pulled out a map.

“He’s here somewhere,” he said, pointing to Wells Next The Sea and Sheringham.

Murphy peered at the map.

“C’mon Bodie, he could be anywhere. What makes you so sure it’s this area?”

Bodie shrugged his shoulders.

“Dunno. Instinct? Doyle? He’s left a train to stop any more trouble . . . here!” He pointed generally along the coastline. “He’ll head to the north coast. It’s isolated, less chance of involving any more of the public. He’s going to look for somewhere quiet, maybe a small village or even just a pub. He’ll try and make contact . . . but with the Dawsons on his trail, he’ll have to be quick and smart.”

“How do you know?” Murphy persisted.

“’Cos Doyle will always choose somewhere out of the way – easier to plan for action . . . and he likes the seaside,” came the terse reply.

They drove toward the coast, stopping several times while Bodie looked at the map, sat thinking, or got out of the car to walk for a while. Murphy sat there behind the wheel, waiting patiently. He trusted Bodie’s instincts completely where Doyle was concerned, and knew that each apparently aimless stop was a part of a mental jigsaw in the man’s mind.  
He knew their uncanny ability to ‘read’ each other had saved lives, their own and others, and made them CI5’s top team. Murphy paid scant attention to comments from lesser mortals like Anson, who wondered aloud if there was ‘more to them two than meets the eye!’ Following this comment in the restroom, Bodie had blown Anson a kiss, while Doyle mustered his best pout and leered at the man.

His thoughts were interrupted as Bodie got back into the car.

“Here,” he said jabbing at the map. “We need to go here. Wells Next The Sea.”

 

********************

Doyle pushed himself up from the hard floor. His arm ached and he was thirsty. He knew the phone call he’d made to HQ was too short to be traceable, and realised he was on his own. Wincing again, he wondered why his arm hurt so much. 

Gingerly, he started to slip off his jacket, when his fingers found a gaping split in the leather. He gently pulled the sleeve away and saw why he was in pain.

Along his upper arm was an open wound, possibly from a knife slash. He probed the wound gently, noting that while not deep, it was weeping and sore. The area was reddened and hot. Doyle thought back to events over the past hours, and realised that Robin Dawson must have caught him during the struggles at the phone box. High on adrenaline and anxious to get away from the brothers, he hadn’t thought anything of the aches and pains invading his body – the desire for survival and sleep had been foremost in his mind. Once he’d prised the lock from the beach hut door, he’d quickly found the blanket and wrapping it around himself, went to asleep across the doorway. 

There was nothing in the beach hut in the way of first aid that he could find. The blanket was old but appeared reasonably clean. He found a tea towel hanging on a nail. The children’s buckets were small and gaily coloured; they had been washed out and presumably stored for winter. 

Dimly, Doyle recalled a conversation from years ago, with Karen, a nursing friend: they’d been sitting on the beach with other friends, and Doyle had cut his foot on a sharp seashell. Hopping around helplessly, he’d asked ‘the professional’ what to do.

“If there’s nothing else available, I suppose you could always use seawater to clean a cut – it’s salty, and that should help . . . depends on how clean the water is I guess. Anyhow Ray, why don’t you just wear flipflops or something on your feet? That would be the sensible option!” She’d grinned up at the young policeman and slapped him playfully on his rear. He’d laughed at her before refilling her wineglass and collapsing on the towels, where Karen cleaned up the small cut and told him not to be such a baby!

Doyle picked up a bucket and opened the door slightly. It was a grey and cold morning, and he could see little beyond the tide line. He removed his boots and socks and carefully went down the steps and walked towards the sea. 

The sand was cold and clammy, washed by the receding tide. Doyle swiftly filled the bucket and returned to the safety of the hut. He inched his tee shirt over his head, taking care not to knock his arm. He managed to tear the tea towel in half, and dipped a piece into the bucket. The water was icy cold. He wrung the cloth out and began to wipe the wound, working gently at the dried blood, while managing not to tear the cut open again. It hurt, the salty water penetrating the cut. Doyle suppressed the moan which threatened to escape, and then realising he was quite alone, and no-one could hear him, gave in to a flow of invective and half strangled cries. 

He dried the wound and used the remaining piece of cloth to tie around his arm. It wasn’t easy, requiring grit, determination and his teeth to tie a knot. After his ministrations, he dressed himself and got ready to leave. The tape was still snug in his back pocket. 

 

Bodie and Murphy arrived in Wells Next The Sea about the same time Doyle woke up. Murphy parked the car on the quayside, and shut off the engine.

“Looks as though it’s seen better days to me,” remarked Murphy. “What makes you so sure Doyle’s here mate?”

Bodie shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s as good a place to start. Look . . . there’s a phone box.”

The two agents left the car and walked across the road to the phone box. Their breath warmed the frigid air as they walked, leaving small clouds of vapour hanging lifelessly in their wake.

Bodie pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside the booth. He picked up the receiver and put it back down. He rifled through the phone books. Meanwhile, Murphy was standing outside staring intently at the pavement.

“Bodie.” 

Bodie opened the door.

Murphy pointed towards the pavement.

“Blood – not much, but there was obviously a bit of a do here . . . and not that long ago either.”

Bodie stood looking at the drops. He pursed his lips.

“So he’s hurt then; but not badly it seems.”

As they stood there, a car screeched into view, and pulled hard to the right, before disappearing along a road parallel to the harbour. Murphy looked quizzically after it.

“That road doesn’t go anywhere but the beach huts. Too early in the year for tourists,” he said.

“How would you know?” asked Bodie.

“I think I’ve been here before! No . . . I’m sure of it. Me mum and dad used to bring me and Sheryl here when we were kids. Always booked a beach hut. We lived on the beach every day. Lovely. Sea’s calm, and when it goes out and boy does it go far, we’d go and look for stuff . . . you know, stones, pebbles, seaweed.”

Bodie was already running towards the car.

“C’mon,” he shouted, “that’s where Doyle would go. It’s out of the way and he’ll be able to see them coming.”

 

********************

The Granada slewed to a messy halt in the car park. Robin and Eddie Dawson got out of the car, guns drawn, and walked swiftly towards the secluded beach  
“Robin. How do you know he’s here?” said Eddie.

“There was nowhere else he could have gone,” replied his brother. “Think about it. I got ‘im in the phone box. I know I cut him. If he’s got any sense, he’d find somewhere quiet to stay the night and work out what to do. ‘E’s got no money, left everything in ‘is car.”

Eddie chewed his lip.

“But he doesn’t know the area bro.” 

“Precisely,” said Robin. “We never saw him on the main road, so he must’ve gone up towards the beach. If he found the huts, it’d be the best place to lay low overnight. Now there’s some light, we can check them out, and if he’s there, we’ll get the tape and then make sure he’s not found until summer!”

Murphy drove the big car quietly up to the car park. The Granada sat there, metal ticking as the engine cooled down. There was no sign of its occupants. The CI5 agents got out and swiftly ran to the closed café. The sun was beginning to struggle through, and the day promised to be cold and crisp.

Wordlessly, both agents made their way to the tree line. Bodie raised a hand. On the still air he could hear the Dawson brothers talking.

“Which one d’you think he’d go for then,” asked Eddie.

“Look for one that’s got a welcome mat outside, idiot!”

Bodie nodded and Murphy powered through the trees and up on to the ridge above the beach huts. Bodie followed seconds later. They swept glances along the coast line, but the brothers were nowhere in sight.

Quickly and quietly they made their way along the bank, ears and eyes straining for as sign of the brothers’ whereabouts.

A sudden cry sent a crowd of gulls wheeling and screeching overhead. Bodie stopped in his tracks, motioning Murphy to do likewise.

Muffled shouts could be heard, followed by the sound of crashing and banging. 

A door to one of the huts flew open and Eddie Dawson, clutching his head, rushed out the hut, missed his footing, and tumbled down the steps. He lay still, crumpled and clearly hurt. Doyle rushed through the door, wielding a child’s spade, closely followed by Robin, who launched himself at the agent and mercilessly pummelled at Doyle’s damaged arm.  
Doyle yelped and dropped the spade. He spun around and backed up against the railing which wrapped around the hut, forming a small balcony. 

“You little shit! Fuckin’ gimme that tape, an’ I might let you live,” screamed Dawson.

Doyle, his arm hanging uselessly at his side, looked around for other means of protecting himself. Dawson, menacing and ruthless, advanced on the injured man. He jabbed a fist into Doyle’s chest, before grabbing his hair and forcing him to his knees. Doyle, in too much pain to do anything other than sink to the floor, swore through gritted teeth.  
“Tell me where the tape is, an’ this will end . . . now!” Dawson fairly spat the words out.

“Fuck . . . off . . .” replied Doyle.

Dawson kicked Doyle in the groin, before administering a sharp blow to his head. Doyle keeled over, and laid there, knees drawn up and trying to catch his breath; his tee shirt was ripped and darkening with blood from his arm. 

Dawson stood there, panting with his exertions. His face was a mask of hatred. He stared down at his brother, still motionless on the sand. Slowly he pulled an evil looking snub nosed gun from his pocket, and pointed it at Doyle.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a cool, calm voice. “There’s a gun pointing at you Dawson.”  
Doyle struggled to his knees.  
“Bodie!”  
In one swift movement, Dawson, pressed the gun into Doyle’s forehead.

“Point blank range pal,” he called out. “Can’t miss, so if you value your friend’s life, I’d back off now.”

Bodie walked slowly out from the wooded area behind the hut. He held his hands up, his gun dangling from his index finger.

Dawson grinned.

“Thought you might see sense. All I want is the tape. Give it to me, and I’ll let this piece of shit go . . . eventually!”

Bodie gave a feral smile.

“Not a chance. Dawson. You’ve been playing out of your league. You need to learn the error of your ways.”

Dawson’s only reply was to cock his gun.

He smiled at Bodie.

“Can’t do that mate. There’s not much to choose between you lot or the Russians – but I don’t wanna spend the rest of my life in Moscow.” He swung the gun around and pointed it steadily at Bodie.

“Do you, and then your friend. Who’s to know?”

“Well, I would for a start,” came another voice.

Dawson wheeled around and let loose a wild shot in the direction of the disembodied voice. Murphy shot back, his aim true, sending Dawson sprawling on the floor, his gun scattering into the undergrowth.

Murphy ran towards the fallen man, while Bodie kept his gun trained on Eddie Dawson, who was shaking his head and trying to make sense of what had gone on during his enforced sleep.

Robin groaned and clutched his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers. Murphy cuffed the two brothers together and pulled them to their feet. He peered briefly at them both.

“Sadly, you’ll both live,” he pronounced. “An’ me being a taxpayer will have to fork out for it at Her Majesty’s pleasure!” He poked the brothers into moving towards the car park.

“You OK Doyle?” asked Bodie. He helped Doyle to his feet. He took in the damage to Doyle’s body, his bloodied arm, the bruising on his chest and face, and the jutting jaw. He nodded to himself. His friend was hurt, cold and hungry but still defiant.

“I had the situation quite in hand thank you,” came the muffled reply. “Amazin’ what you can do with a kid’s spade. Nasty metal edges!”

“Of course you did,” was the smooth reply. “Now shall we collect up our toys and get the nice doctor to take a look at you?”

“Fuck off,” said Doyle again, his mouth forming a smile. It wasn’t going to be such a bad day after all.


End file.
